The Investigation
by Watson a Game
Summary: A small creative writing project I did this semester that I'm really too proud of. / "In the hours after his body was discovered, floating in the pool not unlike a spirit in Purgatory, there was some small chaos concerning the incident." Nick reflects on being questioned by an officer despite the very cut and dry nature of Gatsby's murder at the hands of George Wilson.


In the hours after his body was discovered, floating in the pool not unlike a spirit in Purgatory, there was some small chaos concerning the incident. While it was undeniably obvious that George Wilson was the murderer, the local law enforcement was baffled by such a simple answer that they seemed to collectively decide that it must have been a great conspiracy, employed to disrupt the rhythm of the neighborhood. I have no doubt in my mind now that what truly disarmed them was the knowledge that that very same night their brothers had been called to find Myrtle Wilson's body, and that Gatsby's death at George's hand was nothing less than an accusation on his part, even if George had taken his own life before finding the answer. Despite having been at the office all day, as Gatsby's only neighbor with a view to his backyard, I found myself party to the same questions the officers were asking anyone they suspected - which was anyone but Gatsby's other neighbors.

He introduced himself as Officer Gale Pinkney, a name I thought I had heard before somewhere but didn't have time to consider. What struck me most about Officer Pinkney was that he never wrote anything down, and he leaned against my mantle in almost the exact way Gatsby had just those few weeks before. But while Gatsby had been keeping his distance from Daisy because of his nerves, Pinkney seemed to be keeping his distance from me because of his lack of interest in his case.

"You are Mister Nicholas Carraway?" He asked me, and I affirmed, choosing not to bore him with my preference of the alias Nick after my long grueling childhood struggling away from the juvenile references to Santa Claus in such large number that it became as cruel as any intellectual insult. "You're renting this home for the summer?" He asked, and I affirmed, although at the time I had no idea that the house would become so suffocating following the funeral that I would have to leave with only a note and the rest of the summer's rent. "Did you know Jay Gatsby well?"

His tone was pointed, accusatory, but regardless of my small amount of offense, I knew why. The rest of the neighbors were money. They were as like Gatsby to the unqualified eye as they were unlike Gatsby to me after my time with him. While Gatsby was the green light and his love for Daisy, the neighbors were his silk dress shirts and Friday night parties. I was the odd ball out, the cottage renter who didn't quite belong, and despite knowing my innocence, I found myself nervous that somehow Officer Pinkney knew that I knew George at least as well as I knew Tom Buchanan, who he could easily tie me to with my relation to Daisy.

"I like to think that we were friends, yes, but I've only known him since this summer," I answered calmly. Officer Pinkney seemed to take no offense to that.

"And where were you this morning, around, say, eight o'clock?" He inquired.

"At eight o'clock exactly I was sitting at my desk at work," I answered, making sure not to rush my words. I was telling the truth, so I don't know why I was so anxious about his reception of it. "I remember because I looked up to see what time it was and wondered if I had a moment to check on him."

"So you were close enough that you felt you should check on him?" He pressed, and I knew that I had made a small mistake. I knew of my innocence, but Officer Gale Pinkney seemed to have his doubts. He only asked my whereabouts, and I had offered too much of my inner workings in answer. He had only just begun the questions, and my story was already unraveling.

"Yes," I affirmed. "I considered him a friend."

"And why did you feel that you ought to check on him this morning?" Pinkney pressed on.

"Well, see, last night we went to the city with some other friends of ours," I began to answer, immediately regretting my words, knowing he would ask me which friends I meant, "and while we were there, we had some unfortunate words between us all, and... Jay was rather off-put about it all because he felt that we shouldn't have parted on such a bad tone."

In my current retrospect, I realize that I may have embellished my truth more than I meant. But I couldn't very well tell an officer of the law that I was checking on Jay because Daisy had killed the wife of the man who had killed him.

"May I ask the names of the friends?" With a sigh at my unfortunate invitation, I nodded before answering. "Tom and Daisy Buchanan, and Jordan Baker." This time around, I thankfully held my tongue before I said too much. Officer Pinkney had only asked who they are, not if they were still my friends. Shockingly enough, at the time, I was so sworn that they were not, but in truth, I've seen Daisy many times in the years since, and Tom by extension, even Jordan a few times. I've had little tea parties with Pammy and I've brought Daisy flowers, and I once accepted an invitation to play polo with Tom, but he never seemed to find a proper date for us. I attended Jordan's wedding, to a well-to-do former teammate of Tom's, and she shared her penultimate dance with me, but we were pressed for words given that it was just a few months after the incident.

"What exactly happened between the five of you?" Pinkney asked, though he seemed less accusatory now, probably at the mention of Tom and Daisy.

"We had been racing Tom and Jay's cars, and we ended up at the Plaza after to relax. Tom accused Jay and Daisy of having an affair-"

"Were they?" The officer interjected, immediately re-inspired to believe that somehow I had control of George Wilson's hand. "Do you know if they were having an affair?"

Reflecting on my answer now, I realize that I was as party to the cover up as Tom and Daisy were. At the time, I felt that I was simply telling him the truth that wouldn't end with anyone in jail, because the fundamental truth was that George Wilson had killed Jay Gatsby.

"No, I do not, but they were very upset by the accusations, especially Daisy."

"You said you were racing cars. Did you happen to stop for gas at any point?"

He had made the connection. He knew. He knew everything. He must have. At least, that was how it had felt in that moment. My heart had stopped, the world had frozen, and for a moment, I was convinced that I would immediately join Gatsby and George as the deceased parties of this scandal, and that Officer Pinkney, and Tom, would cover their tracks by labeling me as the orchestrator without my protest.

But my panic passed, and I realized that he was making the connection between George and Gatsby - not between George and me.

"Yes, we did."

"At Wilson's?"

"We did."

From then on, Pinkney had seemed to decide that I was, in fact, innocent, because the remainder of his questions were simply about George and Gatsby's interactions, and when he discovered I had no knowledge of them, he excused himself from my tiny cottage beside the New York's newest notorious estate.


End file.
